CULTIVATING CREATIVE CULTURES WITH COMMUNITIES (4Cs)

Returning for its fifth year, Cultivating Creative Cultures with Communities (4Cs) brings vibrant and diverse cultures to the stage and celebrates the importance of cultural connection and creative performance for young people. 

The State Library of Victoria has partnered with 4Cs with students responding to the exhibition Make Believe: Encounters with Misinformation to produce a personal response narrative.

ADVOCATING FOR UNHEARD VOICES THROUGH MISINFORMATION 

4Cs VCE-VM LITERACY Creative Writing
Proudly Sponsored by The Victorian State Library.
Available for public viewing at Bunjil Place Library, Level 1.

Experience the power of art and storytelling as local students creatively advocate for marginalised communities. Through vivid narratives and compelling visuals, this exhibition amplifies the voices of those often silenced, challenging perceptions and inspiring change. 

Students creative writing are presented below in alphabetical order. 
 

Lyndale Secondary College 

Daycare Dreams by Karley Anderson
Achieving Dreams In Difficult Life by Ahsanullah Rezaie 
The USO You Don’t Know by Troy Sau

FAITH UNDER FIRE 
by Ann Abuseaf

I am a Christian 
You’re not a magician. 
You can’t say, 
“Disappear,” 
and hope I won’t reappear.

Some people call us hypocrites— 
Thinking we can just take the hits. 
Calling me: 
“Soft,” “useless,” “sick.”

When something they believe in gets disrespected, 
They say, 
“We aren’t protected.” 
But when Christians say that? 
“You’re a brat.”

They want dignity in the community... 
But once Christians are involved— 
They disrespect the Holy Trinity.

Moses parted the sea 
So we could just be. 
Some act ruthless— 
Because they think we’re clueless?

They say they respect all religions and traditions... 
But when it’s Christians? 
It feels like no permission. 
That’s where division begins.

Christians have ambition— 
But some call us superstitious, 
Say we don’t meet their “conditions.” 
They claim to know Christianity and its teachings— 
But their info? 
Straight from Wikipedia.

Even in the media, 
It’s hard to ignore— 
Like when a performer joked: 
“I love any man who can get nailed… and come back for more.”

I’d rather have amnesia 
Than accept these kinds of lines 
As truth or something “wise.”

I know where I come from. 
I know what I believe. 
But some people say, 
“Just leave it.”

“Christians are dramatic”— 
That’s not fair. 
Comments like that 
Are problematic.

And when we speak up, 
It’s brushed off as nothing. 
But deep down— 
They’re bluffing.

Why deny it? 
Christians are suffering.

I am Christian. 
And I honour the 21 martyrs, 
And all the others in prison— 
Just for their faith. 
Just for being Christian.

People say, 
“You don’t see our vision,” 
But then push out predictions 
That label Christianity 
As “a white man’s religion.” 
Isn’t that a misconception?

I’m Egyptian— 
And proudly a Christian.

At the Paris 2024 Olympics, 
Some performances stirred controversy— 
Mocking sacred stories. 
Some saw it as art... 
But many felt it went too far. 
To those of faith, 
It felt like a scar.

What gives someone the right 
To mock sacred figures? 
To twist the meanings of scriptures?

This isn’t about hate— 
It’s about hurt. 
And respect.

It’s a cycle 
Where Christians constantly adapt 
Just to survive. 
But we’re not here to fight. 
We’re not here as rivals.

Don’t act like Christian disrespect 
Is new or surprising— 
This has been happening 
Through generations.

Some laugh while we grieve— 
So others can succeed 
At our expense.

Don’t act like one group is better, 
Like people of faith are just 
Objects on display— 
Like art in a gallery 
That you can pick apart, 
Then walk away.

We keep standing— 
Even when we're worn down, 
Exhausted, 
Drained of energy— 
Running on low battery.

You’re not brave 
For ignoring our pain 
And brushing us aside.

We’re not bugs 
To be swept under rugs. 
And no— 
We won’t just sting and vanish.

Stop treating us 
Like we’re the villains.

At what cost 
Does mocking the Cross seem okay?

And when we respond, 
Some say, 
“That’s your loss.”

But this symbol? 
It’s not decoration. 
It holds meaning. 
It holds stories. 
It holds history. 
It’s more than a statue— 
It’s sacred.

You say: 
“Respect Islam.” 
“Respect Hindus and Jews.” 
“Respect LGBTQ.” 
And we agree— 
Respect matters for everyone.

So please, 
See it from our view: 
Christians are hurting too.

What’s the difference 
Between me and you?

We’re all part 
Of one community. 
We can live 
In unity.

You don’t have to agree with everything we do. 
But at the very least— 
Show respect too.

Let’s share this space. 
Let’s ride the same bus. 
Let’s ask one thing:

Can you respect us?

Don’t judge by looks. 
Don’t jump to conclusions. 
This isn’t a rant— 
It’s my truth. 
My experience.

BORN INTO A FAILED SYSTEM 
by Jayvan Aialeo

Leon Baker was born in the forgotten corners of Southeast Melbourne, not the glossy suburbs on postcards, but the cracked pavements of Cranbourne’s backstreets. In postcode 3977, your address wasn’t just where you lived, it shaped your future. Leon’s father was in and out of prison. His mother worked two cleaning jobs, just to keep the lights on and food on the table. School was more a place for free toast than learning. The streets raised him. Or rather, the gang known as 77 did. Violence wasn’t a choice. It was the only language they knew.

By sixteen, Leon had scars older than his little cousins. At eighteen, the cops knew his name before he could even say it. But deep inside, a quiet voice kept whispering that this couldn’t be it. There had to be more than survival. More than fear. More than rage.

At twenty-two, that voice became a scream. After being ambushed by a rival gang, Leon was stabbed 21 times and left to die behind a petrol station. He spent weeks in hospital, drifting between surgeries and nightmares. That brush with death changed everything. He looked in the mirror and didn’t see power or toughness. He saw someone lucky to be alive. The streets had nearly killed him. When he got out, he walked away from 77. It wasn’t easy. It meant risking everything. Being seen as soft. As a traitor. But he was done dying for a postcode that never cared if he lived.

He got a job at a mechanics in Narre Warren. Long hours, oil-stained hands, but honest work. For once, his money didn’t smell like fear or blood. He made friends who didn’t care about where he came from. They only cared whether he could fix their brakes or shout a beer.

One night, they invited him clubbing in the city. Leon hesitated. Going out never meant having fun, it meant a war was coming. Enemies. Eyes in the dark. But this night felt different. Dressed clean, head high, he danced like a regular twenty-something. Just a guy trying to move forward.

Then came the chaos. Around 3am, outside the club, a fight broke out across the street. Leon saw a flash of steel, a blur, then a body fall. Blood on concrete. He didn’t run. He froze—not from guilt, but from knowing this scene too well.

Minutes later, police stormed in. One officer cuffed an old 77 face. Then they saw Leon. Tall, tattooed, familiar. His name lit up their system. No evidence. No questions. Just cold cuffs and the word that chilled his blood: homicide.

Locked in a cell, headlines exploded. Ex-Gang Member in Fatal Stabbing. No one cared about the truth. Until Veronica Mendez did. A young criminal lawyer, sharp and relentless, she uncovered security footage that cleared him. In court, she dismantled the idea that your past defines your guilt.

Leon walked free.

But when his phone buzzed 
“We need to talk. Tonight. It’s about 77.” 
He knew: some ghosts never stay buried. 

THE WEIGHT OF SILENCE 
by Krystal Carnell

The feeling of never being able to scrub off his hands haunts me,  

no matter how much water I pour over my body.  

No matter how much soap I use, or how long I sit in the shower.  

The feeling never goes away.  

It isn’t just the touch that lingers,  

It’s the way the memory of it haunts every corner of my life,  

turning even the simplest daily things into reminders  

of what I could never wash away.

I sit in my bedroom quietly, but the corners seem to amplify my thoughts, the emptiness, the guilt. All I can hear was silence, but it is the loudest thing in the room. I try to push my thoughts away, but they cling to me, sticky and suffocating, like a fog I can’t escape. I just want the feelings to cease but, in my brain, pounds a negative release.

“How could you do this to me?” I said, my voice breaking. Not once but twice. Two different people, and I’m the one who has to pay the price.

As if that isn’t enough, my entire life is surrounded by toxic influences, people who claim to be friends but only pull me deeper into the darkness. You were the one who was supposed to light it, but now I can’t fight it: each drag feels like control, but really is you controlling me. I tell myself, Just one more, but there’s always one more after that. Now the mirror is starting to crack.  

I don’t recognise the person in the mirror anymore, not because they’ve changed, but because I finally stopped pretending I was okay. I stay, I pray, all my feelings weigh. My body doesn’t feel like mine anymore. It’s like I’m stuck living in someone else’s skin; someone I never chose to be. I hate how I flinch when I see them in the mirror. Stretch marks. As if my body is betraying me, stretching beyond what I can control. People say they’re natural, but no one talks about how unnatural they make me feel in my own skin. The scars tell a story I can’t speak out loud, a language only I can understand.  

Sometimes, the only way I know how to quiet everything is to hurt myself. Not because I want to die, but because I want to feel something real, something I can control. The pain makes the noise stop for a second. But even then, the relief never lasts: the memories, the guilt, then silence, always come rushing back heavier than before.  

The saddest part is that I hurt myself more than anyone else ever could because, at least when it’s me, I get to choose where it hurts.  

CULTURAL CHALLENGES IN AUSTRALIA

by Elizabeth Finau 

We are proud of who we are, but sometimes, it feels like we don’t belong here. And often, we don’t feel like we fully belong to our place of origin either. People call us “plastic” because we don’t speak our languages fluently. In Australia, some of us speak our mother tongue with limited proficiency or with a different accent. Others are labelled “FOBs” (an impolite term meaning “Fresh Off the Boat,” used to describe newly arrived people from the Islands).

We may only know parts of our cultural traditions, especially if they’re practiced at home, in places of worship, or in community groups. But that label plastic—hurts. It makes us feel like we’re not real or authentic. And I imagine that this kind of cultural misjudgment is something many young people from diverse backgrounds experience too.

We are not less. We are not fake. We are who we say we are.

Whether or not we have “full knowledge” of our culture, we are still authentic, our true selves. We have strong roots; we just haven’t always been given the same opportunities to grow, learn, or deepen our cultural knowledge and practices in our homelands. But we strive to keep learning what we can. In some countries, cultural identity is widely celebrated in schools and communities. Events like cultural festivals and language weeks bring people together and promote pride through traditional practices.

In Australia, many of us grow up in multicultural communities where there are only a few students from our cultural background. For many, our languages are not taught in schools. Our cultures are not always represented accurately in the curriculum or celebrated at school events. That lack of visibility can make us feel disconnected, even though we carry our culture deep within us.

The misinformation about our “limited” cultural knowledge is really a lack of representation. Our schools are still struggling to incorporate meaningful cultural learning, but we get that with 4Cs.

Culture isn’t about perfection, it’s about pride. It’s about knowing your values and being willing to learn, even if you didn’t grow up with all the traditions. Just because we weren’t raised with full cultural knowledge doesn’t mean we don’t belong. It doesn’t mean we should feel ashamed of our identity and that is why 4Cs is so important to us.
 

What is the 4Cs?

The 4Cs stands for Cultivating Creative Cultures with Communities. 
It is grounded in the values of inclusion, respect, and integrity.

It’s more than just a performance program, it’s a movement. It’s for those who have migrated from their homelands or were born in Australia but identify with more than one culture.

It is a safe space where young people from all cultural backgrounds can explore, reclaim, preserve, and celebrate their identities. They reconnect with language, music, dance, storytelling, family, cultural values, and religion.

For students who don’t require cultural reconnection, 4Cs offers opportunities to learn about other cultures in our schools. It also includes a strong VCE-VM educational component through event management, planning, and applied learning.

This program is designed, created, and led by senior students. It highlights the power of passionate young people shaping their own cultural journeys.

Breaking down the meaning of 4Cs

• Cultivating – Growing and nurturing our understanding and connection to our cultures.
• Creative – Student agency and freedom to express themselves through dance, music, art, storytelling, language, and fashion.
• Cultures – The shared practices, traditions, and heritage that shape our sense of self and family.
• Communities – People of all ages, backgrounds, and experiences coming together to celebrate their uniqueness.

4Cs teaches us that we don’t need to wait for permission to connect with our culture in Australia—we can build it ourselves, right here, right now.

We don’t have to replicate exactly what’s done in our homelands. We can honour who we are by building strong, meaningful connections with what we have learned and developed here in Australia.

We can continue to learn. 
We can continue to ask questions. 
We can create our own cultural spaces and share them with the next generation.

When we say, “We may not know everything about our culture, but we are willing to learn,” we are showing strength and authenticity. We are showing pride. We are proving that we care. We are building stronger bonds between ourselves, each other, and our families.

No one has the right to tell you that you’re not “enough.” 
You define what culture means to you.

It doesn’t matter where you were born. 
It doesn’t matter how much you know right now.

What matters is that you try. 
What matters is that you honour where you come from.

To every student in Australia who feels confused, ashamed, or unsure of who they are:

You are not less. You are more. 
You are the bridge between worlds, 
the living proof that culture adapts, survives, and thrives. 
And you, right now, are shaping the culture of tomorrow. 

A SPEECH FOR HER, FOR ALL OF US
by Pimpimon Hanukoon

Good morning everyone,  

I stand before you today not just as a voice, but as an echo of millions, millions of women and girls around the world who continue to fight for the basic rights so many take for granted. I speak on behalf of every woman who has been silenced, ignored, underestimated, and oppressed. And I speak today with one purpose, to demand change.  

It is 2025, yet women are still fighting for equality. In many parts of the world, women still do not have the right to make decisions about their own bodies. In some countries, girls are denied education because their future is not seen as valuable. Women are forced into marriages before they are old enough to vote, to work, to even understand what it means to have freedom. These are not just stories from faraway lands. In almost every country, including right here, women face violence in their own homes. They face harassment in public places, disrespect in the workplace, and judgment in the media. They are paid less for the same work. They are expected to do more and receive less. They are told to “be quiet,” “smile more,” “be grateful,” “stay strong,” but never speak up.  

That is not equality. That is injustice.  

But this injustice has not broken us, it has made us stronger. Across the world, women are standing up. In classrooms, on construction sites, in courtrooms and parliaments, women are leading movements for justice, education, healthcare, and freedom. Young girls are marching with signs that say, “My voice matters.” And they are right. Their voices do matter. Your voice matters.  

Still, we cannot ignore the pain that exists. We cannot ignore the fact that every minute, a woman somewhere is being abused, attacked, or silenced. We cannot stay comfortable in our freedom while others suffer in silence. That is why we must act.We must demand equal pay for equal work. We must fight for girls to stay in school, to say no to child marriage, to live free from fear. We must support survivors of abuse and create systems that hold abusers accountable. We must ensure women have access to healthcare, safety, and the right to choose what happens to their bodies. Imagine being forced to marry at the age of 13, before you’ve even finished school or discovered who you are. You would lose your freedom, your childhood, and your voice. Or imagine not being able to make choices about your own body being told what you can or can’t do, without having a say. It would feel like your life doesn’t belong to you.  

But even here, women still face unfair treatment. In the workplace, women are often paid less than men for doing the same job or are overlooked for leadership roles just because they’re women. If a woman has children, she might be questioned about her ability to balance work and home, while men are rarely asked the same. Some women are even made to feel guilty or selfish for needing time off to care for their kids. And when a woman buys contraception, she can get weird looks or judgmental comments, as if taking charge of her own health is something to be ashamed of. These everyday experiences show that even in a country with strong women’s rights, true equality still has a long way to go.  

And perhaps most importantly, we must change the way the world sees women not as property, not as less-than, not as background characters in their own stories but as leaders, creators, protectors, and equals.  

I am grateful to live in Australia because we have rights that protect our freedom, safety and equality. We are able to speak up, access education and healthcare, work in any field and have a say in decisions that affect our lives. Not all women around the world have these same opportunities, so I appreciate the progress and support that exists here.  

To the young girl watching this speech and wondering if her life can be different, I say this: Yes, it can. And yes, it will! We are rising, and we are not going back. Hope is not weakness, it is power. And when we use that hope to fuel action, we create real change.  

The future belongs to all of us. Let’s make it fair. Let’s make it equal. Let’s make it better.  

For her. For all of us. 

ECHO 
by Clarence Hie
 

A kid that no one noticed lived in the glittering center of Dustford City, where fountains danced to the music of money and glass buildings. He had no name, or at least no one had given him one. He gave himself the name, Echo, because that was all he ever heard when he called out.

With their eyes forward and their ears shut, the wealthy rushed past him. Echo scrounged for breadcrumbs behind the gold-plated bins of five-star diners, while children younger than him sat in velvet classrooms and luxury vehicles.

He was unsure of his origins. No people, no pictures, no tales. A seasoned old man beside the train station once told him that some children “fall” from the stars. Echo could think of nothing more logical than that. What else would explain why he felt so alien in a world that looked like it was carved out of dreams?

He wasn’t just a shadow, though. He watched. Listened. Learned. He knew which guards he could trick, and which walls had gaps big enough to squeeze through. Like the rest of the city, he was blind to Dustford’s dusty museum’s marble monkey, which he slept under every night.

One morning, a news vehicle pulled up across the square. The mayor was unveiling a new monument to progress. Echo squinted his eyes and watched from the edge of the ground. “Every Voice Matters” was written on a stone carving of a kid with their arms out. For the first time in months, Echo laughed.

He came back that night with chalk. He wrote on the statue’s pedestal: 
"Every voice? My voice was never heard..."

The next day, headlines read: "City's Morals Are Questioned by Mysterious Message."

Authorities shrugged it off, saying, “It was just kids with too much time. Just graffiti!”

But Echo kept going. He wrote letters. He left them on their silk tablecloths in fancy restaurants. He tied them to benches and slipped messages into their mailboxes. No name, just stories. His stories, and ones from others just like him, kids who learned hunger as their first language, kids who slept on vents just to feel warm.

Slowly, people started to notice. Not everyone. Some called it “performance pity,” and others just laughed. But artists, then students and teachers, began to listen. Murals appeared. Poems were written. People started talking. The silence in the city started to break.

One night, a young reporter found Echo drawing on a cracked slate behind the museum. “Who are you?” she asked.

“I’m the kid nobody hears,” he said, “but now you’re listening.”

She wrote his story. The city shared it. Donations came in. New laws were talked about. Echo, still nameless and without a known past, was finally seen.

He never asked for credit. He didn’t need to.

Because for the first time, the silence was broken. 
Not just for him, but for every forgotten kid in that shiny city. 
He had been there the whole time. 
They just never knew how to listen. 
 

ADVOCATING FOR THE INNOCENCE DESTROYED IN WAR
by Ali Sina Nawrozi
 

No one listened when we spoke, but we kept speaking anyway. Every day, innocent people die in Gaza, yet they’re still kept silent.

The Israel-Gaza war has broken out three times. The first was in 1948, which is when the conflict first began. The second was on the 8th of July 2014, and once again it led to major violence. The third and most recent war started on the 7th of October 2023, when fighting began in Gaza. Then on the 27th of October, Israel began a full invasion of the Gaza Strip.

Since the 7th of October 2023, more than 56,000 Palestinians have been killed and over 131,848 injured. That means in just the past four months—and over the past two years—around 187,848 people have been killed or injured. Out of those, 57,448 were innocent children, adults and elders who didn’t deserve to die.

Reports say Israel has stopped many aid trucks, planes and ships from entering Gaza, and some people believe they’re using starvation as a weapon of war. But it’s not just food being blocked—Israel has destroyed or damaged over 90% of homes in Gaza and has also blocked water, medicine, and other life-saving supplies.

Even before October 2023, the war didn’t start with Gaza. Before that, 250 Palestinians, including 50 children, had already been killed. And in September alone, around 1,100 Palestinians were kicked out of their homes and weren’t given a voice or a choice.

This war isn’t just between Palestine and Israel—it also involves other powerful countries. For example, the United States has given Israel $23.8 billion in military aid. But Palestine hasn’t received anything like that to protect its own civilians. How is that fair?

Even if our voices feel ignored, why should the people of Palestine be silenced too? Has the world just given up on them?

If one person does something wrong, they’re held responsible. So why isn’t Israel being held responsible for what’s happening to civilians in Gaza?

You can take action to help make change. I can take action to help make change. We can all take action to try and stop this war. If we don’t speak up now, it might never stop. This war has been going on for over 77 years.

When children are killed in Gaza, there’s often a claim that they were “too close to the border.” Did you know that some IDF soldiers are allowed to open fire on anyone they think is a threat—even women and children—just for being near the border? That doesn’t sit right with me.

Why is it that when a child is born in countries like Australia, Jordan, the USA, or France, they’re treated as innocent—but when a child is born in Palestine, they’re sometimes labelled as dangerous before they even grow up? That’s something I heard on the news, and it’s just not fair.

Our children here are safe and fed. Meanwhile, children in Gaza are dying. That’s not okay.

Our voices need to be heard. The Israel-Gaza war must stop. 
 

SAMOAN AT HEART, NO MATTER WHERE I LIVE
by Marjorie Polutea
 

People think that because I was raised overseas, I’ve somehow lost what it means to be Samoan—like growing up in another country took the culture out of me. There’s an assumption that if you weren’t brought up in the villages, you don’t understand how things work. That if you didn’t go to church every Sunday in a puletasi, or speak Samoan fluently every day, then you must not really know your roots.

Some people expect a certain look, a certain sound, a certain way of being—like there’s only one version of what a Samoan is supposed to be. And when you’re raised outside of the islands, people assume you’ve drifted too far from that version. That the culture didn’t follow you. That you left it behind.

I’m Samoan, but I Grew Up in Australia

I hear the language every day, words filled with meaning and history. I understand what’s being said to me, and I can speak back. Sometimes I stumble, but the words are there. I know the prayers, the songs, and the way we show respect to our elders and family. I know our customs and traditions—not just the big ceremonies, but the small, everyday actions that make us who we are.

I’ve sat quietly while elders spoke, listening and learning from their wisdom. I’ve helped with fa’alavelaves - funerals and celebrations that bring us together. And I’ve heard the stories passed down through generations—stories of strength, struggle, and hope.

I’m Samoan, but I live in Australia

There’s this idea that being Samoan only looks one way—as if it can only exist inside the islands, untouched by outside influence. People assume that just because I grew up somewhere else, I wouldn’t understand the culture.

I get it. When someone isn’t raised in the same place, it’s easy to assume they’ve grown up differently. And I have. My surroundings, my school, the people around me every day weren’t the same as they would have been back home. I didn’t grow up hearing the village church bells ring as the Sā began, or running around the faletele after the feaus were done. But culture doesn’t disappear just because the setting changes. It’s not limited to a place.

I’ve come to realise that a lot of people get the wrong idea because they don’t fully understand what it means to be Samoan. They think it’s only about where you were raised—but it’s so much more than that. Being Samoan is about your values, your family, your language, and how you live every day. It’s about respect, love, humility, and community.

I didn’t leave my culture behind. I grew up with it—just in a different place. That doesn’t make it any less real or any less mine.

I’m learning to let go of the idea that culture must look just one way. My identity isn’t smaller or weaker just because it grew in different soil. Maybe I won’t meet everyone’s expectations, but I am living proof that culture can stretch across oceans and remain strong.

I carry Samoa with me—not perfectly, but proudly. Knowing the language, holding the values close, and loving my culture deeply—that is enough.

I am not half of anything. 
I am whole in who I am. 
I am Samoan. 

THE FEED THAT NEVER ENDS
by Mohammad Razaqi

I used to love social media. It was my escape. A place where I could be anyone I wanted to be. The funnier version of myself, the prettier version, the version that seemed to have it all together. It was like a stage where I could perform the best parts of me, carefully curated and polished.

But over time, that love turned into something else. Slowly, social media stopped feeling like a place of freedom and started feeling like a trap, a place where I was never enough.

The likes and comments that once felt like fun suddenly became the only way I could measure my worth. They were no longer just likes; they were validation or rejection, depending on the day. Every scroll through my feed became a silent, painful reminder of what I was not, the perfect bodies, the flawless lives, the enviable relationships, the glamorous trips, the filtered smiles. Everyone says it’s fake, but my mind doesn’t listen to that truth. It’s hard to believe it’s not real when your feed, is full of polished snapshots that make your own life feel ordinary or broken.

I remember the first time someone left a cruel comment on one of my posts. It was only four words: You look like trash. I laughed it off in front of my friends, trying to play it cool, but that night I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I deleted that photo. Then others. And eventually, the whole app.

But no matter how many times I try to step away, I always come back. Like I’m addicted. Like I’m chasing something I can never quite catch, approval, connection, or maybe just a sense of belonging.

And I’m not alone. I see my friends caught in the same cycle. The pressure to be seen, liked, and share is overwhelming. Some can’t even eat without posting a photo. Others vanish online, only to disappear from school, and from real life too! We’re all pretending, we put on these performances to keep up appearances, but underneath, many of us are feeling more alone than ever.

Social media has the potential to be something beautiful: a place to connect, to lift each other up, to hear stories we’d never otherwise know. But right now, it feels more like a mirror that only shows our flaws. A loud room full of noise where no one is really listening. A stage none of us asked to be on.

I want adults, creators, and platform owners to understand that the choices they make shape our lives. The algorithms that promote negativity. The filters that warp reality. The advertisements that prey on our insecurities. None of it is harmless. It’s not just the internet, it’s social media!  

It’s real! It impacts on how we see ourselves, how we see each other!

We need change! We need online spaces that are safe, that provide mental and emotional protection, instead of degrading pressure. We want social media that celebrates differences and individuality instead of demanding perfection. We need adults to stop participating, and start showing up, to listen, to care, to act.

And most of all, we need each other. Real conversations! Real friendships! Away from the screen because I’m tired, tired of chasing approval… Tired of comparing myself to impossible ideals, tired of losing who I am in a feed that never ends.

Maybe it’s time we stopped scrolling and started seeing each other, truly. 

JOURNEY OF A REFUGEE IN SCHOOL
by Farid Sarwari

Ehsan was nervous on his first day in Secondary College. He had just moved to Melbourne from Afghanistan, and everything felt different. He did not speak much English, but he was excited to learn and make new friends. When he walked into school, the school looked like a maze and the students sounded like they spoke one hundred languages at once.

As he walked in the class, the noise suddenly stopped, like someone hit the quiet button. Everyone looked at him and then someone whispered, “he is one of those refugee kids”. Everyone laughed.

Ehsan did not say anything; he sat at the back of the class and every second felt like an hour for him. At lunch time, he saw students playing soccer. His eyes lit up - back in Afghanistan he played soccer everyday and was good at it. He walked up to them. “Can I play?”  

One boy smirked. “What are you gonna do, blow up the ball?”  

Everyone laughed, and at that moment Ehsan felt like the sky would fall on him, so he turned around and walked away.  

That night, Ehsan did not tell his parents, they were tired from work and worried about bills. Instead, he grabbed his notebook and wrote about his life in Afghanistan, the war, and how hard it was to be seen as someone he was not. He wrote everything.

A few weeks later, his teacher gave the class a task to write a story about their lives - and be honest about it. Ehsan said to himself, “Why not, I have nothing to lose”. He wrote it in his notebook.  

The next day, his teacher stood at the front of the class. “Today I am going to read something special”, she began, before reading Ehsan’s story. The class went dead silent, even the students who never listened sat up straight. Some student's eyes were filled with tears. When she finished, no one laughed.

After class, the students who always mocked Ehsan came up to him and said, “Hey man, your story hit me hard. I’m sorry for everything I did.” Ehsan smiled, “Thanks. That means a lot”.

His story was printed in the school newsletter. A local library invited him to speak at a performance on stage:

“I am not a refugee.

I am a student.

A writer.

And I belong here.  

Like everyone else.”

The crowd clapped and cheered for him. From that day on, Ehsan became a voice for others, he helped new students, made friends, joined the soccer team, and never stopped writing. 

NO ONE WILL EVER KNOW
by Judi Seleman

No one will ever know the way I feel inside, behind this smile, behind the laughs, behind the mask I wear every day. I act like everything is fine, but inside it’s a different story. A story filled with chaos, confusion, and exhaustion.

There’s a constant war of words in my mind that never seems to end. The battle rages on, and the voices… I can’t tune them out. “It’s just a phase, I’ll get over it,” I tell myself. But other days, I feel like I’m sinking. I wonder if anyone is coming to save me?

It’s draining, pretending to be okay. Everyone expects so much from me. Be strong, stay smart, be funny, be perfect. But inside, I’m crumbling. I’m holding myself together with threads that are starting to snap.

I lie awake at night, lost in my mind, rewinding to moments when I felt I wasn’t good enough. “You’re not good enough,” a voice in my head whispers cruelly. It takes up all the space until everything inside me turns black. I carry these invisible weights on my shoulders, and I don’t think I can lift them anymore. They are crushing me, slowly, painfully.

Sometimes I want to scream. I want to shout until someone hears me. But then I stop! Who would actually listen? “You’re overreacting!!” “You’re just being dramatic!!” Those words echo louder than my own pain. I’m too scared to open up—I don’t want to be judged, so I remain silent.

I swallow the pain like a hard pill. I keep it buried deep inside, hidden from the world. If I speak up, I’m scared I’ll lose control, or worse, people will see how broken I really am. It’s lonely here. I feel invisible, not just to others, but to myself. I look in the mirror and I don’t recognise my reflection. I see a shell, a ghost of someone who used to be.

I try to keep up with school, my friends, and my family, but I’m so far behind. I’m falling apart, piece by piece. I see kids my age laughing, going out like everything is okay, like life makes sense. But what’s wrong with me? Why can’t I be normal like them? Why does it feel like I’m trapped in a maze I can’t escape?

I want to feel like I belong. I want to break these walls that surround me. I want help! real help!! not just, “Everything is going to be okay…”  When??  When is it going to be okay? I need someone to understand how I feel. It is not the choice I made. This is a battle I fight every single day. And some days... I lose…

Still, I keep trying. I keep believing, hoping that things will get better. I wish, truly wish, that someone would ask me, “How are you, genuinely?” and actually listen to the real answer. When I finally speak, I don’t want pity. I want to be heard and understood. I want to know that I’m not alone. I want to know that others are fighting too, that someone else knows what it’s like to feel like this.

Mental health for a teenager isn’t just a hashtag or a relatable TikTok trend. It’s real. I feel it in every breath, every day. There are kids younger than me silently drowning in depression. It’s a powerless, unseen battle of words and thoughts taking over our minds.

The hardest part? Feeling unheard. Feeling unseen. Feeling like we don’t matter, even when we leave clues, quiet cries for help that go unnoticed. But here I am today. Still fighting.

Even when it feels like I’m drowning, I still hold on. I hold onto hope. I hold onto faith. I believe, deep down that God is coming to save me. I believe my voice won’t be a whisper forever.

One day, it will be heard. 

And that day is now! 
 

BEYOND THE STEREOTYPE
by Shan Sran

Have you ever come across something online that just filled you with anger? You read it and suddenly feel this tightness in your chest, thinking, "This cannot be happening"? That's exactly how I felt on June 12, 2025, when I learned about the tragic crash of Air India Flight AI171 just minutes after it took off from Ahmedabad. In an instant, 275 lives were lost: families, children, and students. It was heart-wrenching.

But what infuriated me more was the reaction on social media. People were posting insensitive comments like, "Only Indians," or "One less Indian in the world." How can anyone witness such a tragedy and think that it’s funny? This kind of remark is not just insensitive; it reveals an inherent cruelty that disparages the lives that have been lost.

I am Punjabi, and I take pride in my heritage. My people embody resilience, hard work, and strength. We work in vast numbers around the world, from tilling fields in Canada to serving our countries as soldiers. We are engineers, lawyers and businesspeople. Despite these achievements, we still face derogatory stereotypes, often being referred to as "stinky Indians" or becoming the subject of cringeworthy jokes about our culture.

India is so much more than a single narrative. With 28 states and a population of over 1.4 billion, its diversity is staggering, encompassing hundreds of languages, cultures, and traditions. While it is true that around 5.3% of our population lives in abject poverty, let’s not forget that 94.7% do not. We have a space program that was the first to land on the moon's dark side, a burgeoning tech sector, and Bollywood, one of the largest film industries in the world, which impacts millions of lives.

Yet online, we are often reduced to the butt of jokes. We are seen as "scammers" or "call center workers," and people laugh without a second thought. What they forget is that behind each stereotype is a real person with dreams, emotions, and a life story.

Consider the horrific incidents involving Indian students in America or the Indian physician attacked in Australia. These acts are not isolated; they stem from deep-rooted prejudices and dehumanization. Racism isn't always overt; sometimes it disguises itself in memes, jokes, or careless comments on news articles.

I am exhausted. Exhausted by seeing my people's suffering turned into memes and jokes, by watching tragedies met with indifference or derision. I am tired of being told to "lighten up" when the topic is our dignity and lives.

We are not your punchlines. We are Punjabis, Indians, and at our core, human beings deserving of respect and empathy. We need to be appreciated for who we are, not through the lazy stereotypes thrown at us. So the next time you read a "joke" about Indians, pause. Remember, there is an individual behind that joke, someone with a life, a son or daughter, a friend deserving of better. If you can't see that, it may be time for you to start listening.

Yes, India isn't perfect. We have corrupt politicians, restrictions on free speech, and young people grappling with drugs or lacking education on relationships. These are serious issues, and with such a large population, it will take time for change to happen. But despite our flaws, India is alive and thriving, evolving with the spirit of our people. We are not here for your jokes or disdain. You may continue to stereotype and ridicule us, but we will hold our heads high, proud and strong. 

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